The Devil stood before the gate
Of Heaven. He had a single mate:
Behind him, in his shadow, slunk
Clay Sheets in a perspiring funk.
“Saint Peter, see this season ticket,”
Said Satan; “pray undo the wicket.”
The sleepy Saint threw slight regard
Upon the proffered bit of card,
Signed by some sacerdotal cheats:
“Admit the bearer and Clay Sheets.”
Peter expanded all his eyes:
“ ‘Clay Sheets?’—well, I’ll be damned!” he cries.
“Our couches are of golden cloud;
Nothing of earth is here allowed.
I’ll let you in,” he added, shedding
On Nick a smile—“but not your bedding.”
Public-domain source text
<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Sheets
by Ambrose Bierce
Source record
This is a source transcription from Standard Ebooks, published in Past Poetry’s public-domain archive without line-by-line editorial notes. Public-domain source edition. Availability can vary by territory.
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